


I Forgot I Knew Better

by jbeakers



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbeakers/pseuds/jbeakers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silly JohnandPaul co-habitation fic.  Simply for fun, no harm or ownership of characters intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Forgot I Knew Better

“John…”

“Hey, John…”

“JOHN!!!”

Paul reached across the bed and poked Lennon in the back. He was met by silence followed by a snore.

McCartney frowned to himself. After all these years he should have learned. While John had always had trouble falling asleep once he got there, a nuclear bomb blast would never wake him.

Paul needed to talk. Right now.

He sighed and slightly lifted the blanket covering them trying to decide how he was going to disturb John’s peace.

He grinned evilly and drew back his hairy leg and kicked Lennon square in the ass—then scuttled away knowing the reaction would be violent.

He was correct.

John hollered first then proceeded to roll of the bed. Paul hadn’t counted on that, but it gave him a chance to prepare for late night conversation. He listened to John's muffled curses as he struggled with the blanket and figured out what had just occurred.

“Nightmares, John?”

Paul put on a calm, inquisitive face to match his nonchalant tone of voice. His PR face and voice which would certainly piss Lennon off. Pissed off John was also awake John.

“Jesus Christ Almighty, Paul!! What the fuck was that all about?”

Lennon’s head popped up next to the bed, his now shorter hair sticking up in every direction possible. Paul giggled when he realized that the shorter hair just made Lennon look… markedly younger than his recently achieved 72 years.

“You wouldn’t wake up.”

“You’re kidding. Fuck you, Paul! I’m too old for this shit! YOU’RE too old for this shit!!”

Paul interrupted him.

“Which reminds me, did you take a shit today?”

Exasperated, Lennon grabbed two handfuls of sheet and clenched his jaw. He leaned toward Paul, his face red and eyes blazing.

“I’m kneeling on the floor, I’ve been woken out of a dead sleep, I’m desperately trying to find the strength to launch myself over this fucking bed to strangle you… and you’re telling me you woke me up to find out if I took a bloody SHIT?!”

Paul was beginning to think he made a mistake, but brushed it off unable to help himself when he blurted the next question with honest concern in his voice and on his face.

“John, was there blood in your shit??”

By this time John had begun to recover his senses, and had pulled himself to his feet. He glowered at Paul before answering his question.

“Two things: One, my shit is none of your concern. Two… shut up… because I can’t remember what the second one was. Fuck it. Where are my cigarettes??”

“You quit.”

“Don’t mind game me, Paul. You tried that shit last week. I’m a bit forgetful, but not THAT bad!”

“Fine. Maybe not forgetful, but still blind as a fucking bat. They’re right next to you, on the bedside table. Go sit on the chair to smoke, we don’t need you to burn the place down. Let’s not forget you said you’d quit.”

“Yes, Paul, and for many years I said I wasn’t interested in McCartney back-door delights. I LIE. Get the fuck over it.”

John’s sarcastic wit hadn’t dulled even slightly.

Lennon turned and swore under his breath as he grabbed the pack, and stalked over to the chair—sitting carefully—his ass hurt. He lit up and stared daggers at Paul before speaking.

“You didn't really wake me because you wanted to ask me about my shitting habits. I know that. There's something else, and you had better fucking spit it out.”

Paul looked away and began squirming.

“I just needed to talk. That's all.”

“Keep going. That's not a reason, is it?”

“You don’t bring me flowers anymore.”

John stopped in mid-drag, still glaring at Paul as he considered the statement. He snatched his glasses from the chair side table and shoved them on his face, needing to see Paul's face better. After a short study of Paul's demeanor, he let go a loud guffaw. His memory was JUST fine.

“Bloody HELL! I should have known. I should have thrown the fucking things out instead of hiding them, shouldn't I have? Or are you going to whine next that I don't sing you fucking love songs, and remove all doubt?”

Paul didn't answer and continued to primly study an interesting blank spot on the wall, refusing to look at John.

“You found the Neil Diamond records, didn't you? You've been listening to him and Streisand warbling at each other and crying into your bong!! Only YOU could pull off a euphoric crying session, allowing 'relationship' paranoia to take hold!!”

“Maybe.”

“NO. You fucking well DID find them! You better hide them good, Paul, because I’ll throw the lot of them in with the rubbish. That’s where they belong! GOD DAMN, you’re such a little twink.”

Slowly Paul turned his head and looked at John. His face melted into an accusing scowl as he spoke slowly, making sure Lennon caught every word.

“Where did you learn that term?”

John didn't flinch. He knew his mistake already, but figured he still had time to recover.

“Rubbish has always been a very British term, Paul. I've used it ever since I can remember. Who is losing his memory now? I would venture to guess if you looked ‘rubbish’ up in any dictionary; Neil Diamond’s picture would be the first definition.”

Thinking himself clever, Lennon stretched and settled further back into his chair. He gave a wry grin before dragging on his smoke once more.”

“You've been watching my Queer as Folk DVDs, you fucking bastard. I’ve been begging you for a month to watch them with me!!”

“Correction: you haven’t shut the fuck up about them for a month. I wondered what it was all about. Now I know. If you call me Brian again, I can guarantee I’ll kick your ass.”

Paul fixed a now surprised stare on John... Lennon stared right back, narrowing his eyes.

John thought to himself. "Wow. I haven’t seen THAT look in… WELL over 40 years. That ‘O’ look. I thought he grew out of it. Color the man's hair dark and he'd look in his low twenties again..." 

Paul spoke again, interrupting John's musings

 

“I can’t believe you watched them! Without me!! I wanted to watch them with you, you rude prick!!”

Paul snorted and added to his thought.

"So? Did you at least like the show?"

“Not particularly. I can understand why you fell all over yourself, though.”

Paul looked perplexed.

“Why would you think I’d like that show and you wouldn't?!”

“Come on, Paul. You bloody well know why. You’re the original twink! You were the first! You’re the pied piper of twinkdom! You were definitely a bit more masculine than those boys, though. You were pretty, but not all scary skinny and stuff. Still, you must have enjoyed the hell out of watching your people and their overflowing dust bins of emotional troubles.”

Paul now struggled with his words, trying in vain to decide whether he’d been given an honest compliment or had been insulted in a vile way. Thoroughly confused, he pressed on with an argument.

“Shows how much you know, John. Uh. Not every guy on that show is a twink.”

“I beg to differ, Paulie. Sharon Gless is the most masculine face and body in the whole fucking show. She’s a Bear, that one.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say, John! Just leave Deb out of it!!”

“Alright, maybe I am speaking out of my league. As designated king… or … queen? Huh. How would that work?

John tapped the bridge of his nose, thinking about his explanation.

“I KNOW!! You're the original twink, sort of their queen. So you should be dubbed 'QUINK, with a ‘Q-U’!! Your counterparts would be the… twonks?? YES! That's it! I was definitely a twonk. I’m old and an original, too, so I would be a KWONK—with a ‘K’. Hahahaha!! Yes, King of the twonks--that would be me.”

Paul couldn't help but grin at that. Who couldn't grin at Lennon bullshit??

“So really what you’re saying is you've identified Brian as a twonk, then?”

“Absolutely not. He’s a twink with a twonk voice. Poor bloke. I’d do drugs, too, with that particular problem. He’ll learn one day he can’t fuck all his problems away. Jesus--he’s Cyn with a Twiggy chest. And you WILL quit referring to me by his name. No proud twonk wants to be identified as a twink. Get it right, Quinky.”

Paul grinned and shook his head, wondering if Lennon had been thinking about this, or was being his impromptu self. Probably the latter. 

“Alright, let me ask you this: do you honestly believe I was a twink?”

“I’m afraid so, dear. You were a late bloomer for the flashy clothes, but you got there. Your Emmett phase was mercifully short. You’re an old fashioned twink. I like you that way. Your inner Emmett only shows himself when you're shitfaced. Lucky me!”

Paul shook his head with a grin. He realized he just lost a completely made-up argument. In a good way. He sighed heavily and stretched.

“Are you done smoking now?”

“Are you done listening to Neil Diamond?”

“Maybe. I’m tired now, it’s after midnight. I wonder when that happened. Remember when midnight was just when things started to get interesting?”

“I do. We did our late night partying, son. We always said we can sleep when we’re old. Guess what? It’s here.”

“I suppose. Make sure that cigarette is out before you come to bed, please.”

“It’s out. I’ll be there shortly.”

“If it’s out, why don’t you just come to bed?”

“I can’t. I have to take a shit. Thanks for reminding me.”

****

The next afternoon Paul accepted delivery of a huge bouquet of gardenias. Attached was a stern note requesting ALL Neil Diamond records be removed from the household. It was signed Twonk.

Paul couldn't get the records out of the house fast enough...


End file.
